Darkhouse

by Alex Barclay

  “…rotten core

  Seeping through, finally breaking the ivory surface

  A tarnished history

  No longer hidden, too late to hide.”

  Shaun and Katie cheered over the parents’ polite applause. Ed Danaher rolled his eyes at his wife, but was the last one to stop clapping.

  When it was over, Shaun took Katie’s hand and guided her through the hall.

  Joe kissed Anna goodbye and left with Ed for Danaher’s. She turned away, still smiling, and saw Petey Grant, the school caretaker, loping towards her. Petey had sallow skin and dark brown hair cut tight before it started to curl. Under thick eyebrows, his almond-shaped eyes were a soft blue and rarely made contact with anyone else’s. When he spoke, he leaned to one side, holding his big hands in front of him, moving his slender fingers in and out as if he was about to catch or pass a basketball.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Lucchesi. Nice to see you tonight. Did you enjoy the performance? I thought it was excellent. Katie is a lovely singer. She’s also a pretty girl. I heard her practising the other day.’ He blushed. ‘Is Mr Lucchesi here? I wouldn’t mind dropping into his workshop tomorrow if that’s OK. Is he doing anything tomorrow? I have a day off. I wouldn’t mind helping him on that table he’s making.’

  Petey liked to reveal every thought that came into his head. He’d had learning difficulties since he was a child and the kids in school were split between those who gave him a hard time and those who defended him fiercely. Anna adored him. He was polite, enthusiastic, sensitive and charmingly innocent for a twenty-five-year-old. From early on, Petey had found a friend in Joe and someone who shared his interest in lighthouses. Although, for Petey, it was his specialist subject and the only thing he would talk about if he could get away with it. When Joe was working on furniture for the house, Petey would come in, lean back against the worktop and talk for hours about the history of Irish lighthouses.

  ‘You’re welcome at the house any time, Petey,’ said Anna.

  ‘Thanks very much, Mrs Lucchesi. That would be great.’

  He hesitated, never knowing quite when a conversation was over.

  The keys to Seascapes were heavy in Shaun’s pocket. His job was to mow the lawns and carry out repairs at the holiday homes, but now it was September and most of the houses were vacant. His plan was to slip away with Katie to one of them later that night. She had told her mother she was going to his house, he had told his he was going to hers. Martha Lawson was a tough woman to get around, but she trusted her daughter.

  ‘There seems to be a bit of a mix-up about tonight,’ said Martha as she approached the pair. ‘I was just talking to Mrs Lucchesi and she says you’re coming to our house.’

  Shit thought Shaun.

  ‘I thought we were watching Aliens tonight,’ said Katie.

  ‘No,’ said Shaun. ‘Playstation at my house.’

  ‘Well, I’m leaving now, so I’ll give you a lift,’ said Martha.

  ‘Shit,’ Katie mouthed at Shaun.

  Anna stayed for another two hours, tidying up after the performance with some of the other ‘sucker moms’ as Joe called them. It was midnight by the time she left. She walked along by the church, lost in her thoughts.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the beautiful Anna.’ The tone was all wrong.

  She held her breath, then turned around. She was stunned at how John Miller now looked. The glazed eyes, the mottled red face and the unsteady legs she could put down to drunkenness, but everything else came as a shock: his hair, greying and greasy, his skin, puffy, his shirt straining across his stomach. He swayed in front of her.

  ‘I know I look like shit,’ he said, his arms outstretched.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Anna said quietly. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Fuck off! You’re French. You’re fucking perfect.’

  She didn’t know what to say.

  ‘So, it’s Anna Lucheesy now or so I’ve heard. Very nice.’

  ‘Lu-caze-y,’ she said, trying to smile.

  ‘So, you married your cop then? Lucky guy. Lucky, lucky guy.’ He grinned. ‘Any chance of a fuck?’

  ‘Jesus Christ, John!’ she said, looking around. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That I want a fuck.’

  ‘And where is your wife?’

  ‘Still in Australia. Kicked me out. Hah! Can you fucking believe it? I’m back here living with Mother. Psycho up on the hill. About to take over managing the orchard. The one thing I swore I’d never do.’

  ‘I’m sorry, John.’ She turned to walk away.

  ‘You’re a great girl. A gorgeous girl,’ he called after her.

  She kept walking. Her hands were shaking, her face burning.

  Suddenly he was behind her again, grabbing her, forcing her up against the wall, his breath smelling of onions and alcohol, his clothes reeking of fish. There was a shiny smear on his chin and crusty white corners to his mouth. She pushed his heaving drunkenness away.

  ‘John, go home and sober up.’

  ‘You were always a tough bitch, Anna…you little ride.’ She stared at him, searching his face, but she found no trace of the John she used to love.

  TWO

  Stinger’s Creek, North Central Texas, 1978

  ‘He won’t bite you, Duke. It’s not his beak you gotta be worried about. It’s his claws. His claws’re his weapon. ’Bout sixteen pounds’ worth of pressure he can use to tear through your skinny little arm.’ Duke looked up at his Uncle Bill, worried. Bill was smiling.

  ‘Solomon won’t hurt you. You’re givin’ him food. He knows who his friends are. And if he laid a claw on you, I’d shoot him dead.’

  ‘Don’t you dare shoot him, Uncle Bill. Don’t you dare.’

  Bill chuckled, ruffling Duke’s hair. He turned to the Harris’ Hawk perched on his hand, untied the leather straps that tethered him and with an outward sweep of his arm, released the bird upwards. They watched him land gently on a cottonwood tree high above them.

  ‘How ’bout you, Donnie? You wanna try it? I think Duke here’s a little scared.’

  Duke’s eyes narrowed to a slit, his face hot with anger. He flew past his uncle and went straight for his best friend, Donnie, charging him to the ground.

  ‘Duke Rawlins is never scared,’ he hissed.

  ‘Jeez, Duke. Take it easy, fella. Take it easy. You OK, Donnie?’

  ‘Sure am, sir.’

  Duke got up and dusted down his jeans, putting his hand out for the leather glove. Bill handed it to him, pulling a piece of raw meat from the satchel that hung at his side. He pressed the meat between the thumb and forefinger of the glove and went through the routine.

  ‘Stretch out your left arm, there, the one with the glove, and aim that shoulder at him. Then call him and wait for him to land.’

  Solomon swooped down and landed on Duke’s hand, pulling with his beak at the meat until it gave way.

  ‘Now show him your open palm, so he don’t think you got nothin’ in it that he can eat.’ Duke held out a shaky hand to the bird.

  ‘Now catch a hold of the leather straps on his legs and slip them through your fingers, make sure he won’t get away.’

  Duke fumbled with the straps and Solomon flapped his wings, but stayed where he was until he was secured.

  ‘Well done, Duke. Let him go now, just like I showed you.’ Solomon flew again.

  Bill walked over to the bow perch nearby where his second Harris’ Hawk was tied.

  ‘Come on, Sheba, now it’s your turn.’ He released the second bird, who landed high on another cottonwood, flicking her head from side to side.

  Bill was eyeing both hawks. ‘Always checkin’ out what’s goin’ on,’ he said. ‘Always watchin’, waitin’.’

  Suddenly Solomon dived from his perch, swooping low, parting Duke and Donnie. A second flap of wings and Sheba was gone, in determined flight behind him. Bill moved after the hawks, calling to the boys to follow.

  ‘They’ve seen somethin’. You can tell by the way they’
re flyin’.’

  They arrived at an open patch of dry ground and saw a lone Bobwhite quail.

  ‘That’s what they have their eye on,’ said Bill. ‘That’s their quarry – whatever they’re lookin’ to kill. Like another word for prey.’

  Solomon flew in low and just as he reached the quail, it scrambled desperately towards the scraggy borders of scrub along a row of mesquite trees. Then it stopped suddenly. Solomon overshot his target, too late to change his course and was forced to land high in one of the trees ahead. But Sheba had been moving along perpendicular to the quail and before it could react, she was on it, puncturing its flesh. Solomon was down an instant later, securing the quail by its head, both hawks savaging their quarry.

  ‘Like Jekyll and Hyde,’ said Bill. ‘One minute they’re on top of the world lookin’ down on creation, next minute they’re tearin’ that creation apart. And helpin’ each other to do it.’ Bill nodded, proud.

  Wanda Rawlins used to be the star attraction at the Amazon. Drunken, toothless men who had never been out of state swore she was better than any of those Broadway bitches, but were just glad she stayed in a backwater like Stinger’s Creek to dance for them. Ten years later, when her breasts went south, the most she had to offer was a port in a storm. Ten dollars got you a hand job, twenty dollars covered straight sex, no funny business and for twenty-five dollars, her mouth was all yours. Everything was free for acid; you could stay the weekend if you had coke. And two minutes over one weekend was all it took for one of her loyal fans to create the burden of little Duke, now eight years old, but making her feel like a hundred.

  The first time Duke walked in on his mother, he was four years old and he thought she was being strangled. Then he realised she was being strangled, but she didn’t seem to mind. A huge naked man was kneeling behind her, thrusting into her, his thick arm leaning on the wall above her head, the other fiercely gripping a pink silk scarf, twisted and pulled tight around her neck. Her face was crimson, her eyes glazed, her lids heavy. The man looked up at Duke, leering drunkenly, blissfully, continuing what he paid good money for. Duke turned around and walked out. His mother came into the kitchen minutes later, naked under her faded bathrobe. She threw Duke a look. ‘What?’ she snapped as she moved to the work-top. Then ‘Scram!’ right in his ear as she walked by with her coffee. Duke jumped with an innocence that disappeared forever when her next john came to call.

  Westley Ames was a squat, rheumy-eyed, sniffly man, with an apologetic hunch. He had a mousey wife who lay down from the start to be walked over and who bore him three watery daughters. For years, he fought a battle inside, too weak to ever act out the sick fantasies that consumed him.

  He picked his way slowly around the debris in Wanda Rawlins’ yard, a half-gram of coke in a neat folded square of paper in his suit pocket. ‘Howdy, Westley,’ said Wanda, leaning against the doorway, her free hand arced across her brow against the sun. She had been a pretty teenager, tanned and curvy, with a sweet smile that wrinkled the bridge of her upturned nose. Now her body was pale skin stretched across thin bones, her face sharp cheeks and empty blue eyes. Her scrawny legs curved backwards and rocked against the sides of her scuffed white ankle boots.

  This was Westley’s second visit and this time he was here for the weekend. After the last encounter, Wanda thought she may just find herself bored to death before Monday came.

  In a burst of head-to-toe red and blue, four-year-old Duke came running out from the side of the house. ‘Well, who do we have here?’ said Westley, his urges swelling in his chest. ‘You must be Superman! Aren’t you the handsomest little fella?’ He smiled. Duke stared up at him and moved behind his mother’s leg. Westley looked at Wanda and the panic dancing in her eyes. Then he focused on her dilated pupils. He turned back to Duke. ‘Let me talk to your mama a while.’

  Wanda Rawlins was alone in the kitchen, radio blaring, singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn. Beside the unfolded square of paper on the counter top, she bent low to take in her treasured lines, choosing to ignore the raw, agonising screams from the bedroom.

  Two weeks later, when Duke was walking through the schoolyard, he saw the stooped form of Westley Ames at the front gate, a startling silhouette against the bright sun. He began to shake violently. His stomach flipped, then lurched and he threw up all over his trainers.

  ‘Hah! Pukey Dukey!’ said Ashley Ames as she skipped past him and ran ahead, jumping into her daddy’s arms.

  Duke walked back from his Uncle Bill’s with a smile on his face. He had never seen the hawks before, let alone held them. He loved hanging out with Uncle Bill. No-one got hurt at Uncle Bill’s house. Except that poor quail. Bam! Bam! Dead! He could think of a few people he’d like to do that to. And as he turned the corner up to his house, one of them was standing there, waiting for him, combing back his thin brown hair with taut fingers. He was in his early thirties with a soft, boyish face. He took everything in, his blue eyes sliding back and forth across the yard behind black lenses. Everything else was still. His hands were firm on his hips, his feet rooted in polished black shoes, his shirt and pants neat and closefitting. Duke stopped and cocked his head to one side to watch him. He shivered. This guy was a total freak.

  Duke called him Boo-hoo – during his first visits, he always tried to stop his tears. Only the name remained. The tears had dried up long ago.

  THREE

  Anna was sitting on the sofa with a book on Irish lighthouses open on her lap; almost two thousand miles of coastline and eighty major lighthouses to guard them. She turned to Joe.

  ‘You know, the motto of the Commissioners of Irish Lights is in salutem omnium, for the safety of all. It’s funny, I look at our little lighthouse and I feel safe. I can’t imagine how intense it feels when you’re out at sea in a storm, thrown up on massive waves and your whole life depends on that flashing light.’

  ‘You’ve gotta admire those keepers.’

  ‘Sam has some great stories. Some of the keepers used to play poker with the locals and used Morse code to tap out their hands.’ The phone rang and she jumped up to take it in the kitchen.

  ‘Oh hi, Chloe,’ she said. She listened for a minute and then she was pacing, stretching the yellow cord across the room. Joe followed her in. He saw her frown.

  ‘No. I need someone who’s not going to come over here and get traditional. Greg’s work on Iceland was three Björks by an igloo. Not good enough. I was thinking of this Irish guy, Brendan—’

  She rolled her eyes up to Joe at the interruption.

  ‘No, no, listen! I’ve seen his work, it is completely different. And he’ll avoid all those terrible clichés. I’ve made a few calls and apparently he’s amazing—’

  She stopped again.

  ‘I didn’t say I wanted Irish models! We’ll use American or French girls, that’s fine. But this is an interiors spread, Chloe. They should not be the focus.’

  She held the phone away from her ear, then brought it back when Chloe stopped.

  ‘OK, OK. I’ll call him, get him to send you his book and the spread I saw in the Irish magazine. Then you make your informed decision.’ She hung up.

  Joe looked at her, amazed. Miles away from the office, she was still secure enough to stamp her feet.

  ‘What’s for lunch then?’ he said, teasing.

  ‘Chloe is so stupid,’ said Anna as she walked to the fridge. ‘Meatball sandwiches with barbecue sauce.’

  He squeezed her tightly, wrapping his arms around her from behind. ‘I love your balls.’

  She laughed in spite of herself. ‘Tragique. Oh, by the way, the doors should be here today,’ she said.

  ‘If they were still together and Jim Morrison wasn’t dead.’

  Anna simply shook her head.

  ‘Come on, you love the bad ones,’ said Joe.

  She stared at him. ‘Quel curieux caractère.’ He recognised the quote, from the French version of Toy Story. In the English version it was ‘You sad, strange little man.’
>
  After lunch, Ray’s van bumped up the stony drive. Anna waved him towards the lighthouse. He took a left and drove down the sloping grass as close as he could get to the steps. He got out and threw his hands up in the air.

  ‘What am I supposed to do now?’ he shouted to her.

  She jogged over to the bottom of the steps.

  ‘I’ll need to call in back-up,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Love that cop speak.’

  ‘Can I have a look?’ she said, nodding at the van.

  ‘You can indeed,’ said Ray. He opened the back doors and lifted a layer of green tarpaulin.

  ‘Oh my God,’ she said, her hand to her mouth. ‘They’re beautiful!’

  ‘They’re wooden doors,’ said Ray.

  ‘No, no. They’re beautiful. You did an amazing job.’

  ‘Thank you. I had the picture of the old lighthouse doors pinned to my board the whole time.’

  ‘They’re magnifique,’ she said.

  ‘They could almost be magnificent,’ he said.

  ‘Stop that!’ she laughed. ‘You’re always making fun of me.’

  ‘I always used to make fun of the girls I fancied in school,’ he said, winking.

  ‘You flirting with my wife again?’ said Joe, coming up beside them. ‘I’m pushing forty here, Ray – thirty-year-old charmers worry me.’ Ray was the same height as Anna, but looked shorter because he was so broad. His dark eyebrows and constantly furrowed brow could make him look either incredibly sensitive or just plain stupid. He was neither.

  ‘The doors are great,’ said Joe, running his hand over the wood.

  ‘Don’t. I’ll get a swelled head,’ said Ray. ‘OK, now how’re we going to get these down? Where’s this back-up of yours, Anna?’